


In the bed beside him

by iffervescent



Category: Bridgerton (TV), Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn
Genre: Anal Sex, But Anthony only wants to sleep in one, Explicit Sexual Content, Family Feels, Friends to Lovers, Friends to old married couple to lovers, Lol jk there's like 700 in that mansion, M/M, Mutual Pining, Regency, Regency Romance, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:02:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28450602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iffervescent/pseuds/iffervescent
Summary: “I am in possession of something that you are not.” Anthony declares, raising his glass in a toast.“Brothers.”Yes I am well aware of that, you little wretch,Simon thinks fondly to himself.Seeing as you never stop talking about them.
Relationships: Simon Basset/Anthony Bridgerton
Comments: 61
Kudos: 610





	In the bed beside him

**Author's Note:**

> Based entirely upon the Netflix series instead of the books, and inspired entirely by Rege-Jean Page's beautiful face

“I am in possession of something that you are not.” Anthony declares, raising his glass in a toast. “ _Brothers_.” 

_Yes I am well aware of that, you little wretch_ , Simon thinks fondly to himself. _Seeing as you never stop talking about them._

~ 

In actual fact it had taken years for Simon to realise the full extent of the Bridgerton family. He places the blame for that squarely on Anthony himself – he has an irritating habit of simply saying ‘ _my brother did’_ or ‘ _my sister said’_ without specifying _which one_ he’s actually referring to – as well as the fact that the blasted family just won’t stop _growing_. The only concrete birthdate of any of them Simon knows is the youngest – the girl, oh Lord, what’s the eighth letter of the alphabet? H. Hattie. No, Henrietta. No, _Hyacinth_ – and that’s only because she was born after Anthony’s father passed and he was called down from Oxford to become the new Viscount. The letters he’d sent in those times had barely been legible, words scrawling off the page and the ink blotted and smeared, as though Simon's stammer was manifesting itself in Anthony's script. Simon had found the rawness of them almost too much to bear and had only managed a reply to one or two. It was for the best, he’d thought at the time – Anthony was ensconced in the bosom of his family, the best place for him, and Simon’s fumbling platitudes could barely be worth the paper they were written on. 

But whatever reason or whoever to blame, the fact is that Simon hadn’t quite grasped the… _breadth_ of the Bridgerton household until towards the end of their time at Eton, when the conversation had gone something like – 

“My mother writes that my sister is in disgrace at the moment. She somehow figured out how to undo her own leading string and attached it to the collar of one of my father’s dogs whilst out in the garden. The hound caught a scent and the poor maid was dragged along for twelve feet before she let go the lead.” 

“Bridgerton, your sister is _two_. I refuse to believe –” 

“Oh, not Francesca, I’m talking of Eloise of course.” 

“Right.” Simon had squinted down the barrel of his gun whilst his brain scrambled for information. “I always thought Eloise quite a proper young lady from your stories, very demure –” 

“Oh no, not Eloise.” Anthony raised his gun, fired, and smirked as the woodpigeon fell neatly from the sky. “That’s Daphne of course.” 

“Good God Bridgerton, how many sisters do you have?” Simon asked. This was important information. With the way Anthony was Simon had no doubt he was going to be called upon to stand second for the man at some point, and an insult to one of his (many) sister’s honours seemed the most likely cause. 

“Oh, only the three of them.” Anthony said, looking surprised. His younger self is still so clear in Simon’s memory, his hair even more curled and tousled than now. “I do apologise, I hadn’t realised I hadn’t laid it out clearly enough for you. Daphne is the oldest, she’s just been turned over to a formal governess. Then there’s Eloise – the troublemaker – and little Francesca.” 

“You and your brother must be looking forward to overseeing the lot of them once they’re out.” Simon said with a grin, taking his shot. He only had a very dim idea of what the London Season was like, all those gowns and lights and parties…Anthony had invited him along to stay with his family several times in the spring, but Simon knew full well his father would have him dragged back to Cliveden immediately, behind the carriage if necessary. 

Oh, King’s grace have mercy. Anthony was giving him that dark side-eye of his. What had Simon managed to fumble now? 

“ _Brothers_.” Anthony said, stressing the plural. Simon put down his gun completely at that. 

“ _Bridgerton_. How many brothers?” 

“Three of those as well. Benedict’s at Charterhouse, Colin’s at home and Gregory is still in swaddling cloths.” 

Simon counted very hastily. 

“There’s _s-seven_ of you? Good _Lord_ Anthony.” 

Anthony didn’t so much as bat an eye at his mis-speak. He’d never shown the slightest awareness of Simon’s impediment at all, which was probably why Simon valued him higher than any other being of his acquaintance, saving the Lady Danbury of course. And possibly, maybe, just the tiniest bit higher than her. 

“I suppose it does make breakfast just that little bit more boisterous, but honestly Basset, it’s hardly out of the common way. Clarendon has nine siblings,” he leant closer and winked. “And probably more than that in his father’s bastards!” 

“I can’t even think of it.” Simon had only managed to weakly say. He’d dined alone his entire life at home. “Seven of you round a table, plus your parents. What does – what does that even feel like?” 

The look Anthony had given him then had not been familiar to him at all, which was irritating in the extreme because he liked to think he had every flash of Bridgerton’s dark eyes neatly catalogued. 

“It feels like family, Basset.” Anthony had said, and then nodded to the school gameskeeper. They’d both raised their guns and, for a time at least, let the matter drop. 

~ 

Simon keeps track after that. It’s the bare minimum of courtesy really, and as throughout their friendship Anthony usually receives at least two or three letters a week from siblings or parents, so as long as Simon is paying attention he can usually piece it all together. 

(It helps that Anthony gets better at saying ‘ _my brother Colin did’_ or ‘ _my sister Daphne said_ ’, or for about a month at least, and then falls right back into old habits. But by then Simon has enough of a grasp on ages and positions to be able to figure it out). 

Even after he embarks on his Grand Tour – less grand, and less of a tour than that of most other young gentleman his age, more spurred by his father’s clear intention that he should remove himself from society post-haste – even after he leaves England for his wanderings, Anthony’s letters and the stories of his brothers and sisters still follow him wherever he goes. Anthony is usually better at talking about his siblings than himself, which is frustrating, but also such a symbol of his friend’s character that Simon finds it endearing more often than not. 

Simon has viewed the Bridgerton brood as a key aspect of his friend’s character for so long that he doesn’t entirely realise the impact it’s had on his own, until he returns to England and meets Daphne in person for the first time. She is every bit as prim and proper as he’d expected, until her pale eyes flash in wit or anger just as her brother’s do...and he cannot muster even the tiniest sense of attraction to her otherwise lovely form. It’s just as well of course – Anthony would probably shoot him – but it marks the very first moment he looks at a woman and thinks: _sister_. 

Talking with Daphne is a delight, embarking upon their ruse to fool the entire _ton_ even more so. There is a slight wobble in their plans when she begins to gaze up at him slightly more doe-eyed than he would like – Anthony has mentioned him to his family many times of course, but never in such detail as flows the other way. Simon knows of the time she fell in a puddle and cried for days when she was six, or of her insistence on wearing only coral pink for the whole of her thirteenth year, or the time she – well, suffice to say, even meeting her in person cannot dispel half a lifetime of considering her in a brotherly-manner-by-proxy. And then Prince Frederick appears and, well, they really are an enchanting match together, and one with the Queen’s firm backing as well. 

It serves his purpose too – he practices a forlorn look in the mirror (of their club bathroom at one point, Anthony nearly expiring from laughter on the velvet fainting couch in the corner) and disappoints Lady Danbury by wearing even drabber clothes than usual, and the mothers of the ton easily assume he is pining and heartbroken. One or two still try to shove their daughters under his nose, as though grief will have somehow left him dim-witted as well, but Lady Whistledown of all people comes to his aid, declaring it: 

_“…in the poorest of taste to be accosting the young Duke so soon after his being valiantly trounced in the game of love._ Most _mothers I am sure would hesitate to promenade their daughters past his eyes at this time, in case some lingering feelings of remorse at his lost diamond were to attach themselves to their persons, and that they would therefore be at a disadvantage_ next _Season, when the Duke is sure to return more virile and focused than ever.”_

(“How do you feel Hastings, having the Lady Whistledown comment on your _virility?_ ”, “Oh do shut up Bridgerton.”) 

In any event, he survives his very first Season in London relatively unaccosted and, more importantly, unwed. At the final ball – hosted by the Duke of Devonshire – he even has a remarkably good time. All the matches of the season have been made and he can dance without fear of raising a young girl’s hopes beyond what he intends to meet. The _ton’s_ gossip has moved past him, for a year at least: the Prince and Princess’s speedy return to London saved Colin Bridgerton’s reputation, and there are rumours the Bow Street Runners seized Lady Whistledown’s printing operation, which will severely set back her ability to publish any more of her pamphlets unless she has significant capital at her disposal to begin the endeavour again. 

“How is your brother faring?” he asks Anthony, when London has finally regained a measure of peace, as the man tosses back another tumbler of White’s finest whiskey. Tonight his friend’s eyes are drawn and downcast and Simon has no doubt that the whisper he heard about Lord Aylesworth’s new opera singer companion is the cause. But there – a small flash of amusement from Anthony as he eyes Simon over the top of his glass. 

“Which one? You never can tell them apart.” 

“I have gotten much better.” Simon retorts. His exchanges with Daphne had been a potent reminder of how much he enjoyed conversing with her older brother even more. “I am positive I can remember all ages and birthdates now. Come, quiz me.” 

“Oh I well believe you can remember their birthdates better than I can.” Anthony says with a little half-smirk. “But if I put them in a line could you put a name to a face I ask you.” 

“Of course I can. Gregory’s face would be much lower down than the other two.” 

He gets a full laugh at that, some of the colour flushing back into his friend’s face. 

“And my sisters? If they were in a line?” 

“Oh that is unfair, I haven’t even met the last one.” Simon points an admonishing finger at the other man. “And no doubt you will think up some prank where you switch all their dresses and hair ornaments so I do not even have a clue, and then admonish me for making them cry when I call them all by each other’s name.” 

“Me? Prank? You admonish me without reason Hastings, I am the very picture of honourable conduct.” 

Simon just snorts and leans across the table to chink their glasses together. They spend a few minutes drinking in a companionable silence he hasn’t known since – well, since the last time they drank together at Oxford. 

“What is it like?” Anthony asks suddenly, and there is a tone to his voice that brings Simon to full attention. “If you do not object to my asking – what is it like, having no brothers or sisters?” 

“You knew it once.” Simon points out, mainly to give himself a moment to regain his composure at the question. Strange – it is one he has considered a hundred times himself, but to hear it in another’s voice has suddenly thrown his mind into disarray. 

“For a mere two years before Benedict came along,” snorts Anthony, taking another large drink from his glass. “I most regret that I do not recall the particulars. I cannot even fathom it now, to – to be alone, in such a way.” 

“And I cannot fathom it from your side either.” Simon replies. “To be eternally surrounded, by…by other versions of who you could have been, I suppose, had you been born a little later, or of a different sex. To know that there are so many in the world who share your blood, and your history, and your upbringing...” 

There is a pause where they both consider the other gravely, and then Anthony moves on behalf of them both and signals for another round. Simon raises his refilled glass in a silent salute. 

“What are your plans now that the Season is over?” his companion asks suddenly, and Simon stiffens all at once because that is _not_ the voice of his friend, Anthony, that is the voice of the Viscount Bridgerton when he is about to impose his formidable will upon the world. 

“I had not thought of it.” Simon says, searching for whatever trap he is about to fall into. The last time he heard Anthony speak in this voice was three hours before they released a brace of crows into the examination hall at Oriel. “I suppose it is time enough that I returned to Cliveden and ensured the estate’s affairs are in order.” 

“If you wished to delay the trip,” Anthony says, far more casually than any scheming man such as he has a right to, “you would be more than welcome to join us at Aubrey Hall for an extended visit.” 

Simon pauses. There is whatever mischief Anthony is up to here, but also the knowledge that it has been some time since the Bridgerton family took to their country residence. Not since the passing of the late Viscount Bridgerton, if his memory serves him. The invitation would not have been made lightly. 

“I was not aware your mother planned to return to Kent this year,” he hedges. Anthony tips the golden liquid back and forth in his glass. 

“I believe Daphne’s marriage has made her maudlin for her own married life, enough to overcome her grief at being at home without…without Father. You know, Gregory and Hyacinth do not know the place at all? It is high time we visited and – and your company would be most welcome.” 

Simon can see the role he is to play – a jarring note in an otherwise harmonious familial environment, off-setting enough to prevent anyone from slipping into memories of times and loved ones past. A guest to focus the Lady Bridgerton’s attentions on, so her grief should not overwhelm her in the way that those smeared and misspelled letters to Oxford had implied she came so close to being. 

It is a role he would gladly play for a few short weeks, to ease the burden of a dear friend. 

“I would be honoured.” 

“Then it’s settled.” Anthony’s grin is wide and delighted. “And I should thank you on the Prince’s behalf – he and Daphne will be visiting of course, and the two of you can take solace in each other’s company as the only non-Bridgertons at the breakfast table.” 

“Joy.” Simon drawls. He is still waiting for the axe to fall and Anthony only lasts another few moments before his grin shifts into something a little more wicked… 

“…and it will be an _excellent_ opportunity for you to receive the _fullest_ experience of life with seven siblings. I am sure you will be delighted to participate in _all_ the family elements during your stay.” 

“You little shit,” Simon hisses, and Anthony just sprawls back in his chair, every trace of depression in his eyes banished for the time being and Simon cannot regret the conversation or the obligation he has landed himself under – to Aubrey Hall then, to play older brother to a bevy of Bridgertons and no doubt put up with even more of Anthony’s mocking. 

He realises he is quite looking forward to it. 

~ 

Aubrey Hall is an elegant building perfectly suited to the respectable family it houses, set to great advantage amongst the extensive grounds and wholly in keeping with the feel of the surrounding countryside. It is also a great deal less ostentatious than Cliveden, and Simon gazes at it with pleasure as his carriage makes its way down the winding drive. 

Anthony, having sprung his trap, was inclined towards a brief bout of mercy, and had agreed that Simon could escape the pandemonium of transporting the whole lot of them down there and could instead rejoin them in a day or two when the family was settled. Simon had pushed his luck to three and could already see the Viscount on his front steps, arms crossed and foot tapping. 

He sinks back into the cushions to hide his grin. 

“Hastings. So glad you were able to join us, _finally_.” The bite in Anthony’s voice could curdle cream as Simon jumps down from the carriage. Simon knows his grin is probably not endearing him to the other man, but the laughter is clear in his friend’s face. The clasp of an arm to his own is proof enough. “Truly, I am glad.” 

“I am glad also. All the stories you have told me of your country home, I can scarcely believe this is the first time I’ve set foot here.” Simon says. He’d been thinking of those stories during the pleasant drive from London – Anthony playing with his siblings and dogs on the south lawn, Anthony climbing the trees in the orchard, Anthony swimming in the waters of the lake – 

“Come! I have given my mother the strictest instructions that you are to be treated as family,” Anthony says as he urges Simon inside. His words cause the queerest turn in Simon’s chest. “So I am afraid you will not be able to stand on ceremony at all. In fact, I’ve no idea where even half of them are at the moment, so you shall have to be waylaid by my family one at a time –” 

“You speak of them as French militia,” Simon mutters, and Anthony just raises his brows. 

“If we were ever to give Eloise a pistol I wouldn’t be surprised if she ran away to join our own.” 

“Benedict _did_ give me a pistol,” a high voice urges from somewhere above them. Simon hides his grin behind his hand as Anthony groans. “And I was a damned good shot to boot.” 

“Eloise! Your language!” 

“I thought you said the Duke of Hastings was to be considered as family?” Eloise comes down the last few steps of the broad staircase with an arched brow. “Then surely it is perfectly acceptable to speak to him as I would a brother? I have an abundance of brothers already you know, and I’ve just added a Prince, but I suppose a Duke would round us out admirably.” 

“Hastings, my sister Eloise. Who does not speak to any of her brothers in such a fashion normally, I assure you.” 

“The one with the dog and the maid?” Simon murmurs quietly, and Anthony gives him an aggrieved look. 

“The very one and the same. And still as impetuous.” 

“Coming from someone as staid as my eldest brother that’s quite a compliment.” Eloise teases, and then neatly dodges Anthony’s grab for her with a laugh. There is – an ease to them, which Simon has not seen before. As though being here, in their home, away from society’s eyes, has freed them from some set of constraints he had not been aware of. Perhaps this is part of the appeal of siblings then – beings to whom you can reveal a less constrained side of yourself. 

“The Duke is here, the Duke is here!” comes yet another high voice, and the youngest girl – _Hyacinth –_ comes hurtling out of a side-corridor, nearly taking out a footman along the way. She skids to a stop barely a foot away and drops a curtsey. “Your Grace. Anthony says you are here to play with Gregory and I whenever we want?” 

Simon puts his hand on Anthony’s shoulder and squeezes till he hits bone. The wince he gets in response only partially restores his good humour. 

“The Duke needs to greet mama first,” Eloise says, instantly elevating her to the position of his favourite Bridgerton sibling. He refuses to feel any shame for the speed with which he follows her into the drawing room. 

The next hour is one of the pleasantest and most bizarre he can remember in some time. The Lady Bridgerton’s reputation as one of England’s most gracious hostesses is well-deserved, and there is a steady stream of younger Bridgertons wandering in and out to keep any awkwardness of his presence in their family environment unnoticed. 

Hyacinth and Gregory chatter at him excitedly until their mother shushes them, but not before they have secured promises that he will join them for riding lessons, kiting on the lawn and as many games of marbles or hoops as they please. When they are finally handed over to a governess Eloise proves herself as wily a conversationalist as her older brother, talking of the Land Bill being read in Parliament and the latest news from Spain (and also somehow managing to secure him for a game of checkers at some point, in a conversational twist he cannot quite pinpoint). Benedict, the second oldest brother, wanders in with his hands covered in charcoal and is severely admonished not to touch anything – he stands with his hands clasped before him like a penitent and asks Simon questions about the portraiture at Cliveden and if he has any others of Granville’s works, whilst Eloise feeds him bites of cake in between sentences. He is wishing for something stronger than tea by the time Francesca and Colin join them – Colin having briefly delayed his travels so he can receive his sister after her resumed honeymoon – and he is caught up in an argument (if one can even call it such, considering those involved spend half the duration laughing) about the south of France versus the south of Italy. 

“I do hope this is not all too overwhelming for you Your Grace.” Lady Bridgerton says apologetically when her third and sixth child have wandered out again. “Being back at Aubrey Hall has quite dissolved any semblance of proper behaviour amongst my children.” 

“I find it all quite enchanting my lady.” Simon reassures her as sincerely as he can. For it is. The Bridgertons have no notion of standing on ceremony with one another. Even in his most informal interactions with Lady Danbury when he was a child, it never quite attained this level of…warmth. 

“You are holding up quite well,” drawls a voice from the door, and Simon mock-glares at Anthony leaning there, dressed for riding. “I was going to ask if you wanted to accompany me for a ride around the estate, but I see they haven’t even let you escape long enough to refresh yourself in your room.” 

“Oh my word Your Grace I do apologise.” The Lady Bridgerton promptly looks mortified and Simon shoots her son a baleful look. “I assumed you had been taken straight there after your arrival, please accept my –” 

“It is perfectly alright Lady Bridgerton, I much preferred getting a chance to greet you all.” Simon says. “Bridgerton! If you give me but a moment to change I will join you promptly.” 

“I will wait for you,” Anthony promises, dark eyes filled with that same warmth, and Simon takes his leave of Lady Bridgerton and hurriedly follows a footman upstairs. He has clearly been placed in the nicest room available, elegantly decorated in _chinoiserie_ wallpaper and overlooking the long stretch of the grounds, down to the lake at the very end. His valet is there already and Simon idly considers whether the weather is warm enough for a swim as he is rapidly changed into riding breeches and waistcoat. 

Anthony has an equally elegant mare awaiting him just outside the stables, her coat the same dark chestnut as her master’s hair. Even more welcome is the handkerchief he hands over as soon as Simon is in the saddle. 

“I assume my siblings kept you chattering too much to actually sample any of our housecook’s baking. It would have been worth being rude for, I assure you.” 

“Mmm,” Simon stuffs one of the small tartlets in his mouth and hums appreciatively. It is good. “Thank you. I have not broken my fast today.” 

“I remember you cannot eat in a carriage without it turning your stomach.” Anthony says, touching his heels to his mount’s side. “Hopefully it is not the same on horseback?” 

“Not at all, so long as I can feel the wind in my face,” Simon replies. The handkerchief is full to bursting and he offers Anthony one of the miniature sponges as they trot down the drive. “Tell me, how did I fare in my first morning of experiencing the Bridgerton way of life?” 

“Well, you’re still standing, which is to your credit.” Anthony licks crumbs off his fingers and Simon waits for it. “On the other hand, I did have to rescue you barely an hour in.” 

“Oh, is this a rescue?” Simon smirks. “I thought perhaps it was a plea for my company all of your own. Otherwise surely you would be riding in circles in the rain still pining over your lost singer.” 

For a moment he worries he has gone too far – but no, his years of friendship and observing Anthony have proven their worth. A flash of regret passes over his friend’s face, but it is gone a moment later leaving no trace, the lightness of the tease enough to lift his soul out of the doldrums where it would otherwise reside. 

Privately, Simon thinks Anthony’s infatuation just that. From what Anthony told him of the lady she seemed strong-willed and determined, two traits he knows stir Anthony’s blood like no other – but it seems they rarely conversed. As Daphne put it so sweetly and simply: a marriage should take friendship as its foundation. There would have been no future for any connection of Anthony’s where he could not talk to them as easily as he did a sibling or friend. 

“Ah, Hastings, as brutal as ever.” Anthony says, but still with a smile. “Shall we accept that this is a mutually beneficial excursion then, to save me from pining, and you from perishing from lack of sustenance?” 

“Well I assumed lunch would have been served at some point,” Simon demurs. Anthony just grins at him as he kicks his horse into a canter. 

“Lunch is an even more informal affair!” The wind carries his voice back, and Simon laughs to realise he would have expected nothing less, and gives chase. 

~ 

He settles into life at Aubrey Hall quicker than he could have ever imagined possible. Spring slips into full summer as he immerses himself into the Bridgerton life, filled with lessons and riding and sharing the newspapers over breakfast and then debating over dinner – the scene then rounding itself to completion when Daphne and Prince Frederick arrive after the first week, and he finally gets to sit at a table of all eight Bridgeton siblings – and finally, finally gleaning some understanding of what it means to be part of a _family_. 

“It is the most wonderful feeling, is it not?” the Prince asks one day, when the two of them are sat on the broad terrace above the lawn. There is a ferocious game of Bounders in play on the gently sloping grass beneath them, with Gregory currently setting up to bat – Benedict crouching behind him, to guide his hands and no doubt do most of the work. Eloise has already proven herself a terrifying player, hitting out both Colin and the Lady Bridgerton. Simon has no doubt at all that he and Prince Frederick have only a brief period of freedom remaining to them, before they are dragged onto the lawn to play as well. 

Family, he has learnt, involves a great deal of _competition_. 

“Apologies, Your Highness?” 

“A most wonderful feeling. Being included in such joy.” The Prince makes an expansive gesture that takes in the grounds, the sunlit lawn, and the family running around in loud and rambunctious glee. “I thought that I understand family – I have many cousins, you know – and two brothers. But this…ahhh!” 

Simon inclines his head politely. “I have no cousins or brothers or family at all. But I would wholeheartedly agree.” 

The Prince seems pleased at this. He is a jolly fellow, truly a good match for Daphne. Apparently he roared with laughter when she told him of the ruse she and Simon had cooked up – either way, he shook Simon’s hand heartily when he arrived. 

“Yes. We are both lucky to be included, yes?” 

“Hastings!” Anthony’s roar carries across the entire lawn. “Have you lost the use of your legs? Get up here and bat for me!” 

“Surely his Highness cannot be abandoned.” Simon yells back. The Prince snorts into his drink and then bats blue eyes at Simon in an entirely transparent fashion. 

“Not at all, not at all, I am quite content to sit here peacefully…and hide behind my rank a little longer.” 

Simon just tips his head back and laughs. 

“Your Highness…I have been acquainted with the Bridgertons since I was thirteen. You have perhaps two minutes more before they send one of the young ladies to beseech the strength of your arm for their side.” 

He leaves the Prince laughing about his oncoming fate and jogs across the lawn to where Anthony waits, stripped down to only his shirt. A warm arm, heavy with the smell of male sweat, flings itself around his neck as soon as he’s within reach. 

“You and the Prince have developed quite a rapport.” 

“I am the Duke of Hastings, in case you were not aware.” Simon informs him smugly. “I am required to act as an ambassador on behalf of the crown, entertain many foreign dignitaries, uphold the –” 

“Oh Lord, do stop or I will dunk you in the lake.” Anthony threatens, and Simon knows he full well can. He can box – and Anthony can fight. The slighter man is scrappy as a terrier and has not the slightest shred of honour when it comes to knocking an opponent down – a phenomenon Simon has been assured is one hundred percent the result of growing up with brothers. 

Oh, family. 

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Anthony asks suddenly, his gaze dark and serious. Simon turns his head so their faces are very close together, feeling the puff of the other man’s breath against his cheek. “My family – it is not too much, is it?” 

“No,” Simon hears himself murmur the words far lower than he had intended. He clears his throat and tugs at his cravat. “Not at all. I am – I am so pleased to be here.” 

“I am pleased you are here also.” Anthony replies, squeezing him with an arm strong from riding and fencing and shooting. “And I will be even more pleased when you help me trounce Eloise’s team into the dirt.” 

“She is already recruiting the Prince I see.” 

Anthony snorts as the Prince is cajoled by Daphne and Eloise on the grounds. “We agreed we should each get one of you. I asked for the Prince, knowing full well they would immediately deny me. And now I have you, just as I wanted.” He turns his face to Simon again, a satisfied look in his eyes and Simon cannot help his jerk of a response, grabbing Anthony’s wrist where it is still draped around him. 

“Yes, you have me,” is the only reply he can think to make. The need for any further speech is made redundant when the game recommences a moment later, leaving him only with a strange candle-flicker of a thought inside his head, and a lingering warmth around his shoulders. 

The game ends with the two of them versus Daphne and her Prince, and when Simon catches the ball out Anthony yells for joy and tackles him around the waist. The Lady Bridgerton banishes all the men in exasperation shortly after and Simon runs across the lawn, cravat and waistcoat falling behind him along with the Bridgerton boys’, down and down to the lake at the bottom, to dive into the clear waters and come up sluicing the water from his eyes, Colin and Benedict ducking each other in the shallows, the Prince doing a clean backstroke across the length, and then Anthony resurfacing beside him. 

The sunlight is glinting off the lake, off the droplets in Anthony’s water-dark hair and the curve of his neck, and he is smiling, broad and joyous and – 

And Simon cannot take his eyes off of him. 

Ah. Perhaps a different sort of family than he’d thought. 

~ 

“Are you alright Your Grace?” Francesca asks, her head peeking around the door of the sitting room. Simon immediately regrets the extended bout of foul language he’d just indulged in. Family, he has learnt, also means endless snooping and eavesdropping and always swearing just at the moment that Lady Bridgerton or one of the younger children wanders by. 

“I am perfectly fine, thank you Miss Bridgerton,” he manages to get out. “Please do, ah, please do excuse me if you heard –” 

“Oh, I didn’t hear anything Your Grace,” she tells him quite cheerfully, and then skips off. Simon groans and slides down into his chair. How the rest of his evening fares will depend substantially on which sibling she runs into first – 

“Francesca says you are in here swearing like a drunken sailor fresh off at Portsmouth.” Anthony says, sitting down beside him. “I told her not to mention it to mother.” 

“You are a true friend.” Simon tells him without opening his eyes. “I had no idea little sisters would so cheerfully tattle on you at the most immediate opportunity.” 

“Ah, you have not yet learnt how to either scare them or bribe them.” Anthony says meditatively. Simon hears the rustle of cushions and knows he has stretched out on the sofa. “And why is Francesca ‘little sister’ whilst I am merely ‘friend’? Am I not the one who has welcomed you wholeheartedly into my family?” 

“I do not think of you as a brother, Anthony.” Simon says without thinking, and immediately scrambles to recover himself. “And certainly no man is worthy of the title when he has brought me here to be a hobbyhorse for his youngest siblings every day for an hour before dinner.” 

“It gives one an appetite.” Anthony replies grandly, and then pauses only a moment before speaking again. “Well? I assume your foul language has something to do with the letter you have clenched in your fist? There is nothing amiss I hope?” 

“Gentlemen should not pry.” Simon chides him, as though either of them has ever given a damn about manners where the other was concerned. He huffs and opens his eyes – Anthony is watching him with a patient expression. It is easier to extend the letter than to try and put it all into words; there is still a tight knot of anger in his chest and Simon does not trust that the words would even make it out in one piece. Just because Anthony does not seem to notice his damned stammer does not mean he wants to sound like a half-wit in front of his best friend. 

It only takes Anthony a few short minutes to read the entire piece. 

“Oh, bad luck Hastings. This sounds like quite the mess. Was there no hint of the steward’s villainy before this?” 

“Apparently he intercepted all correspondence that would otherwise have notified me of his wrongdoings.” Simon says with a sigh. He cannot wholly blame the steward, cur that he is – Simon has sorely neglected his duty towards his tenants and his estates. His negligence allowed the steward to act with such boundless impudence. “I am fortunate indeed that I sent Jeffries ahead to Cliveden – the man was caught in the midst of absconding, and some portion of what he would have otherwise stolen reclaimed and returned to its rightful owners.” 

“And your coffers as well I hope?” Antony asks, and Simon sits bolt upright in sudden disgust. Bad enough that his father’s depraved steward has bled his tenant farmers dry for years now, but to suggest that he should pocket the purloined coins that resulted from such a crime rather than returning them – 

“Hastings! Do not look at me like that.” Anthony is holding up both hands and only the sincerest faith in his friend’s character calms his sudden anger. Anthony, this is Anthony, who has more honour in his smallest finger than most men have in their whole hearts. “Hear me out – men such as this only grab for themselves in the present, with no thought for the future. The taxes he imposed would mean your farmers now struggle for the funds to buy crop seed and stock – simply returning that coin to them can have little benefit so late in the year when they cannot get to market. As the Duke, you can wield greater negotiating power in Covent Garden Market, or at the pens; you can purchase in bulk the seeds and breeding stock your farmers require, and then redistribute it in lieu of the coin. It will go the furthest towards righting this wrong.” 

Simon presses his hand to his head and forces his breathing to return to its normal state. Anthony is right, of course he is. The turn of the seasons cares little for the coin a man has in hand, compared to the seeds he has in the ground. 

“Yes. Yes, you are quite right Bridgerton. Thank you.” 

Anthony shifts closer, his hand warm on Simon’s shoulder. 

“Think nothing of it. I have never had to deal with such a crisis myself, but I have gleaned a little knowledge over the years.” 

Simon represses the urge to shake his head and smile. Anthony always understates his own achievements – to become Viscount so soon into his studies at Oxford, head of such a large household and with such a reputation to maintain…Simon has heard the older gentlemen in their club speak of him with respect and admiration, and Anthony not a third of their age. To say he has ‘gleaned a little’ does not do him due credit at all. 

“Bridgerton…I am afraid I must most regrettably beg pardon of you and your mother. I cannot ask Jeffries to oversee a matter such as this, not when my inattention is the cause. I will need to leave for Cliveden at once.” 

“Of course, I would expect nothing less.” The corner of Anthony’s mouth draws up in a smirk. “Though after your scheming with my sister I would not half put it past you for this to be nothing less than another elaborate ruse, one to escape my family chaos –” 

“I have very much enjoyed your family chaos, and will miss it greatly.” Simon cannot help but interrupt. He knows Anthony is only speaking in jest, but staying at Aubrey Hall…he will treasure this brief time he has had as part of a family. 

“You have been most welcome here.” Anthony says softly, all trace of a smirk gone. He rises in one smooth motion and rests his hand on Simon’s shoulder. “I will insist you stay for dinner, we cannot let a guest depart unfed, but if you wish to see to your arrangements I will inform my family on your behalf, and see that they do not bother you in the meantime.” 

Bother him. Gregory and Hyacinth come to decry him for abandoning them so soon. Eloise mockingly asking if he is running away to avoid being beaten at checkers a third time. Colin and Benedict expressing regret they did not get to take him out to the orchard like they promised. Daphne and Francesca fussing that there will be no one at Cliveden to take care of him. 

No, he would not mind being bothered at all. 

“Thank you Anthony, it is appreciated.” 

Half a lifetime spent constantly travelling means that he is always well-prepared to be on the move again at least, and his things are loaded onto the carriage in no time at all. Lady Bridgerton even obliges him by bringing dinner forward, and the sincere regret around the table at his sudden departure is a balm to his own, leaving Simon with a soft, gentle feeling of disappointment as he clambers into his carriage. 

Only to be dispersed like a sudden shock of ice-water at finding Anthony already there. 

“Bridgerton? Do you have an urgent errand in town?” 

“I have an urgent errand at Cliveden – you do not mind taking me all the way there do you?” 

Simon stares at him a moment longer and then smirks, sliding down into his own seat. 

“I have just spent a month charming your mother into liking me – do you truly plan to undo all my hard work by making her think I have stolen away her oldest son?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Anthony sniffs, his own smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “My mother is in raptures over us _both_ – you for your dedication to your tenants, and me for my true and staunch friendship. You should be more worried about your standing with my brothers, especially Colin, who is most irritated at having his tour thwarted so that he and Benedict can watch over the estate whilst I’m gone.” 

That knot that has sat in Simon's chest since he received the letter eases away at Anthony’s words. He had previously attributed the tight and fretful feeling to guilt – guilt, at letting his personal relationship with his father cloud his sense of duty towards his estates – but there is clearly a far simpler explanation: he simply did not want to be alone again. To have Anthony with him a little longer, surely he can be forgiven this small indulgence. 

“Also I cannot help but feel that an exchange is owed me,” Anthony says, as though he’s reading Simon’s thoughts. “You have had the chance to experience the family life these past weeks; it seems only fair that I now get to experience the unencumbered one, free from all family duties and burdens.” 

“God, Anthony, you fool, you will hate it worse than anything.” Simon tells him with a laugh. Anthony just gives a little shrug and turns away to face out of the window. 

“Perhaps. It has its own merits as well I understand. Freedom, chiefly, the freedom to do as one wishes, to love as one wishes…” he trails off and Simon thinks bleakly that his company was not the tonic he had hoped for, if Anthony is still pining after his opera singer. He shall have to ensure their time together at Cliveden is suitably entertaining then, despite the work that awaits them. 

Once again he is grateful to have Anthony at his side. Things will go easier now that he is here. 

~ 

He is both right and wrong in his predictions. Anthony brings a wealth of knowledge on estate management, one that Simon could not possibly have hoped to equal on his own. His father had deliberately kept him excluded from all matters relating to the Hastings title – Simon was relieved of his parliamentary duties this year due to still being in mourning, but he does not look forward to taking his place in the Lords next spring at all – and whilst he is sure he could have figured it all out himself eventually, having Anthony’s experience and insights at his side helps him resolve the estate’s issues far quicker than were he on his own. 

Or they would have, if Anthony were not such a distraction in his own right. 

Some part of it is his insistence upon mixing entertainment with duty. They attend every village fete and fair within twenty miles of Cliveden, at one point going so far as to stay overnight in an inn halfway to Oxford so they can visit the Parish County gathering. Simon knows he should be grateful – he would still be ploughing his way through sheaths of documents in his office otherwise, some lingering dread of embarrassing himself by speaking in public preventing him from venturing out on his own – but with Anthony cheerfully quizzing bull owners on their beast’s pedigree or insisting they sample every local ale they come across (paying twice the going rate, Simon is sure, to the delight of the village brewers) any worries of that nature simply drift away. 

And then there is the distraction Anthony provides all of his own. 

Simon does not let his thoughts dwell in that direction. Such things have only recently been tolerated in polite society, since two of the queen’s handmaidens wed with her blessing. Simon has had an affair or two of that nature in the past, seducing a pretty tailor’s son, a handsome soldier stationed close by – but to his knowledge Anthony has never even glanced at another man in such a way. To let his distraction show...it could well be expected to strain even the most sincere and whole-hearted of friendships. 

Simon is long accustomed to putting regrets to one side. Laying this down to rest in the bottom of his soul, so that he might keep Anthony as a friend…? It is scarcely even worth calling a regret. 

What is a far more pressing concern is his friend’s wellbeing overall. He has noticed – first with a gentle concern, and with a more strident recent one – that despite Anthony’s insistence on good cheer and revelry he grows paler and more quiet by the day. 

Goddamnit, Simon will ride to London and carry the opera singer back here himself if that will restore Anthony to his more natural self. 

“King’s grace have mercy Anthony,” he groans one morning. There can be no avoiding the subject now, not unless Bridgerton has managed to completely forgo glancing in a mirror this morning, which by his clean-shaved cheek he clearly has not. In which case he must be fully aware of the dark circles under his eyes, almost sunken against the pallor of his cheek. Simon throws his newspaper onto the table. “Please – is it my mattresses? Are you like a princess out of myth, and there is a pea beneath your mattress that stops you from sleep?” 

Anthony, as he had hoped, snorts out a laugh. It brings a spot of colour to each cheek, which is sufficient to reassure him that his friend isn’t actually _dead_ and sitting as a corpse at his table. He picks up his teacup and takes a long sip. Anthony only lasts a moment or two of the silence, toying with his cutlery, before he huffs out a breath and stretches back in his chair. They are eating on the terrace in the morning summer light, all the footmen stationed some distance away. 

“I suppose it was too much to hope that I could avoid your mockery forever.” Anthony takes a defiant bite of toast and glares at him. Simon steals the toast and takes a bite of his own. This is beginning to verge on madness. 

“Bridgerton. I haven’t seen you look this bad since the day after May Morning. You must have drunk two bottles of port to yourself. I was surprised to find you still alive.” 

“It wasn’t terribly good port.” Anthony muses, squinting up at the sun. Simon hides his smile and goes back to waiting him out. After a while the other man runs his hand through his hair – even more dishevelled than usual, and more proof of his bedraggled state – and relents. 

“I am having trouble sleeping.” 

“Well that much is obvious.” Simon drawls, because he cannot resist. In punishment Anthony reaches over and steals his tea and takes a truly obnoxious slurp. “Tell me why, Bridgerton.” 

“I am…unaccustomed to sleeping alone.” 

From any other unmarried man Simon would have taken such a statement as the most objectionable sort of sly bragging. From the downward curve of Anthony’s mouth however it is clear this is not a state of affairs the other man takes any sort of pride in. Simon stretches out his legs and nudges his companion gently. 

“Carry on Bridgerton. Let’s have the whole sorry tale out of you so I can commence with my mockery.” 

“You are a right shit sometimes Hastings, do you know that?” Anthony’s smile has perked up a little though, so Simon busies himself with his breakfast. “Oh, very well. It is nothing so surprising. I have always, in some form or another, shared a bed, or at very least a room, with another. One simply grows accustomed to companionable presence, that’s all, and it is therefore a tad…discomfiting…to be alone.” 

Alone. The only state Simon has ever known, and one so strange to Anthony that it disrupts the very rhythms of his rest. 

To distract himself Simon casts his mind back as far as he can. 

“We were in dorms at Eton of course, but surely you slept alone in a room before this?” 

Anthony gives a shrug as he cradles his tea. “When I was very young I slept with Benedict obviously. Once I was breeched I was given my own bed, but still in the nursery. My father had ordered the West Wing of Aubrey Hall completely renovated, and I don’t think he had planned for Colin and Daphne to come along in quick succession before the works were complete. We all doubled up until I was sent to Eton.” 

Simon remembered him then, small and thin and pale, with huge dark eyes that took up half his face and untameable hair. Only his family’s flawless pedigree had saved him from the sort of bullying that Simon had had to endure, with his second generation title and a stammer that rendered him unintelligible to the entire school – until he’d learnt to put his boxing lessons to good use. Anthony had traded beds till he’d reached the one where Simon had been placed, in the coldest, furthest corner of the dorms, and then offered to teach him the perfect spot to kick his opponent in the shin to have him howling on the ground. He hadn’t shown the slightest impatience or boredom whilst Simon had stammered out a response. After that day Anthony looked better – had slept better, in the bed beside him – and Simon’s impediment had started to ease away. 

“And Oxford?” he asks, but he’s already flicking through the answer. They all had their own rooms in the college of course, but Anthony had always been popular, friends in every quad in the university. Simon had never known where to find him on any given morning, whose bed he had stumbled into after a night of drinking or curled up at the end of after an intense quizzing session. Or a girl’s. He’d spent plenty of time in girls’ beds too. 

“Anthony,” he chides. “Your opera singer – and before her, the dancer; and before her…have you wended your way from lady to lady just so you never had to sleep alone?” 

Anthony gives him that dark side-eye he knows so well. “And how many beds have you inhabited for better reasons? Let alone worse ones!” 

Simon does not let himself be deterred. “But at Bridgerton House – at Aubrey Hall –” 

“Obviously I _can_ sleep alone.” Anthony grits out. “I’m not a child! A night or two is fine, and when I’m surrounded by the sounds of my family…” 

“Ah, at last, we hit upon the crux of the problem.” Simon announces loudly. “It was not a pea after all – it is that my house is too _quiet_ for you. Of course, the Viscount Bridgerton could never follow the masses in such a matter – where others would adore such a peaceful, restful slumber, he must announce that he cannot possibly be expected to take rest without the rattling chaos of –” 

“Stop, stop!” Anthony cries, nearly doubled over with laughter. “Forgive me, I should have claimed it was a pea after all, and let you replace my mattress every night for a week instead.” 

“Bridgerton, please do stop yourself from throwing your tea at me, but I must ask…why in the Lord’s name have you not _married?_ ” Simon asks, half in genuine confusion and half from exasperation. The dark circles under his friend’s eyes make this only in part a joking matter. “Surely it is the most obvious and practical solution to the problem?” 

“Because,” Anthony holds his teacup up to the sun, letting the fine bone china glow white and translucent. “I am a fool.” He does not expand upon the topic further.

“Well I always knew that,” Simon mutters into his own reclaimed teacup, when it is clear no further explanation is forthcoming. Anthony shoots him an amused look and they sit and watch the sunlight stretch over the woods before them. Finally Simon sets his cup down with a rattle. 

“Very well. Tonight you can sleep with me.” 

There is a very long pause. Anthony seems to have gone as pale and fragile as his teacup, more eyes than since he was a boy. Finally life seems to breathe back into him and he blinks over at Simon. 

“I said I found rest in the sounds of my family home, I hardly think substituting your snoring for –” 

“Not another word,” Simon points a butter knife at him. “You know perfectly well I don’t snore.” 

“I must disagree, I recall the night after our graduation ceremony –” 

“Argyll and Harrowick stayed with us too, it could have been either one of them –” 

“The windows positively _rattled_ , I was afraid for the glass –” 

“You wretch,” Simon grabs for him but Anthony is already leaning away with a grin. “Tonight you are definitely staying with me, and you will have the deepest, most restful sleep since you were a babe.” 

After a (small) amount of more bickering they finally attend to their abandoned breakfasts, and then prepare to ride over to the farms on the eastern side of the estate. It isn’t until some time in the early afternoon that Simon properly thinks through what he has set himself up for, lingers over the idea of having Anthony's warm and breathing form beside him in bed. For a moment he faintly regrets not pursuing Daphne more vigorously. Everything would be much simpler if Anthony had simply shot him. 

~ 

“Good God I did not think you were serious.” Anthony attempts to argue as Simon tows him through the corridors, both of them clad in breeches and shirts. He at least had the wit to do this before either of them were down to robing gowns. 

“Tomorrow you are likely to keel over into your kippers.” Simon argues over his shoulder. “If sharing a bed with you for an evening means that I don’t have to witness the embarrassment of my best friend floundering into his eggs –” 

“A bed?” Anthony hisses at him, striding forward so they are side by side. He glances at the footmen they pass as they walk from the guest wing to the family one. “Do you announce every visitor to your bed so brazenly Hastings? I had assumed I would stay on your chaise lounge.” 

“Heaven have mercy, Bridgerton, my bed is so large I doubt I will notice you are there.” Simon mutters. He still means to redecorate the room as soon as more pressing issues are settled – he is torn between knowing that the furniture in there was chosen by his mother and valuing it as such, and feeling deep unease in knowing that his father once also slept there. Having Anthony’s presence will help dispel both legacies. 

“I doubt the _ton_ will give a damn how big your bed is.” Anthony says, grabbing at his arm. Simon suddenly finds himself the one being towed as Anthony drags him down the corridor to his room and yanks him inside. “Considering how little you enjoyed Lady Whistledown’s speculations on your marriageability last season, I’m sure you will find her gossip about our rumoured sleeping arrangements even less palatable at the start of next!” 

“I should be delighted by it.” Simon tells him stubbornly. “It will thoroughly keep the society mothers at bay!” 

“You are ridiculous,” is the immediate response. “I can think of six mothers who have sons with a preference for men, you will have every one of them _hounding_ you to within an inch of your life if they think they can make a match with a Duke.” 

Simon pauses, a little surprised. The Queen’s handmaidens had been married nearly six years ago – he had not expected such an open shift in attitudes since. As always, Anthony reads his thoughts off his face. 

“Oh, it is not widely talked about of course. But for second sons or plainer daughters with such preferences it is another avenue to see their futures secured.” 

Second sons. Of course. 

“The day I live my life based on what the _ton_ thinks or does, you may rightly put me facedown in the earth, let alone my eggs and kippers.” Simon can’t stop himself from retorting hotly. Anthony takes a step back in the face of his anger, his own eyes flashing – and then they alight on the bed on the other side of the room and some strange cloud passes across them, and Simon has an emotion he does not know tasting bitter and sharp upon his tongue, and cannot be damned with any of it. 

“I am for bed, and for a good sleep. If the same appeals to you, stay,” he bites out. Out of some vague sense of – something, he does no more than toe his boots off and then fall into the bed in his shirt and breeches, loose enough not to bring him too much discomfort. Even in his loneliest or most anxious times sleep has always come easy for him and the same stands now, he can feel its fingers creeping over him before the bed shifts and the distant warmth of Anthony joins him. 

Simon did not tell him, because he had not known he’d remembered, every single time that Anthony had stumbled drunk or curled up exhausted in _his_ bed at Oxford. His friend is bigger now, heavy with muscle and presence both, and his breath is deep and even. Simon can smell him, warm and musky and male. 

He rolls over and puts his face in the pillow. He had been quite right – his bed is big enough it is easy to pretend he does not know Anthony is there at all. 

~ 

Anthony shares his bed the next night, and the night after that, and they do not speak of Whistledown or marriageability or hounding mothers again. Anthony looks strong and healthy once more – though Simon cannot fathom how, seeing as the other man is awake and out of bed every morning before Simon regains consciousness – and they work as a seamless team, pouring over account books to identify every injustice, and introducing Simon to every tenant who works his land. 

It is worth it then. No matter that having Anthony's scent on his pillows is driving him to distraction, or that Simon's dreams have been filled with imagined moans, moans that he could bring into the waking world simply by stretching out an arm, taking his friend in hand, pressing him down into the mattress and kissing him awake...such considerations are immaterial in the face of Anthony's restored vigour. And so he continues to tell himself as the days roll past. 

Summer is glazing over into the colours of autumn when guests arrive, only a day behind the delayed letter announcing their arrival. It is Daphne and Prince Frederick, on a tour of England to decide where Prince Frederick might like to let a property. Simon admires their show of equitability, when it is perfectly clear to anyone who has spent more than five minutes with more than two members of the Bridgerton family that they will be settling down in Kent, close to the rest of them. He announces as much over the dinner table and is much gratified by the Prince’s loud laughter whilst the Bridgerton siblings exchange disgruntled glances. 

“Well, perhaps we might like to settle in Berkshire instead.” Daphne declares loudly. “And that way we will be close to Cliveden, will we not, to the two of you? And it is not far from Kent at all, especially if one stays in London on the journey –” 

“Hasting’s tenants have only just survived the return of their Duke.” Anthony smirks from the other end of the table. “I think if a Prince were to descend upon them the county might expire from excitement.” 

“It is very lovely countryside.” Prince Frederick says to Simon. “I understand you are working much hard to restore your lands? I am sure you will do well in this endeavour.” 

“Thank you Your Highness. I must confess I do not feel able to take the credit for any success – the Viscount Bridgerton's knowledge has made my own lack most pitifully obvious.” 

“Ah! Then wherever my wife and I chose to settle, we will call upon both of you to help us.” The Prince says, looking pleased between them. Simon cannot help feel there is some misunderstanding happening that he does not know how to correct, but Daphne is beaming encouragingly at her husband and Anthony staring down at his soup and it seems far more prudent to let the matter lie. 

He should have remembered. Prim and proper she may be, but Daphne has every bit of the wit and fire that her brother has. 

“Have the two of you quarrelled?” she asks, when she has cornered him the next day. Simon had thought he’d done an admirable job squirrelling himself away in the east wing to work, but clearly not hidden enough. Female intuition is a terrifying thing, even more so than Eloise's batting arm, and one he is not at all prepared to defend against when his eyes feel gritty and his head slow. 

Anthony has returned to his own bed whilst his family are visiting. 

“No?” Simon asks. She can only be referring to him and Anthony. “I cannot afford to quarrel with your brother right now; he has half my estate’s finances in his head and is the only person in the county who can talk round the magistrate in Reading Town.” 

Daphne sits beside him in a sweep of pale pink skirts. Not quite coral, but close enough. 

“Then why does he seem so…forlorn.” 

Simon clears his throat and begins to shuffle his papers. Whether friendship or brotherly duty, neither would possibly induce him to open a conversation around her brother’s choice of paramours – 

“Oh, and it is not about that opera singer of his. Eloise heard from Benedict that they parted quite amicably in the end.” 

This family. Simon simply cannot fathom it sometimes. 

“I do not believe it would be appropriate for me to discuss –” 

“Oh, bother that,” Daphne says firmly. “Unless you’d like Benedict and Colin to ride over here instead? Or Eloise – she still won’t give that pistol back you know, we’ve no idea where she’s hidden it. My brother was so happy when you came to stay with us, mother quite approved, and then he accompanies you here and – well. I shouldn’t pry. But perhaps it would do you well to consider the matter in private, and reach a resolution with my brother as speedily as possible.” 

Simon considers the wallpaper for some time after she has gone. Quite a considerable part of his brain is contemplating how little prepared English society is for the wave that is soon to be unleashed upon it. Only half the Bridgerton siblings are currently out and they already wield enough power and influence to scare even him – when all eight of them are wed (and he has no doubt at all that they will wed, love matches every one, and to individuals as forthright and determined as they are) then there will probably be no more powerful family in the country. 

No wonder the Queen wanted the first one married into _her_ family. She was clearly attempting to put a leash on the lot of them as early as possible. 

Simon suspects that will go as well as Eloise’s leading strings. 

The rest of his brain is still lingering over twelve simple words. 

_My brother was so happy when you came to stay with us_. 

Daphne and the Prince stay another two days and a night, pleasant for all four of them in conversation and viewing the beautiful countryside, even if Daphne does still occasionally give him meaningful looks whenever Anthony is looking the other way. Simon hands her into her carriage with a little regret and a great deal of relief. 

It should be noted that the Bridgerton women are scarier than the men by far. 

That night, as he suspects, Anthony does not appear at his door. Simon walks through the hallways to the guest wing, and notices far fewer footmen than before, and decides that is not something he ever wants to broach in conversation with his housekeeper. 

“Hastings? Is something wrong?” Anthony pauses with his shirt in his hands in the corner of his room. Simon leans against the doorframe and just looks at him for a long moment. He is doing this – this terrible, hopeful, risky thing – on nothing more than a sister’s intuition and a wistful dream. And a lifetime spent studying the man before him, cataloguing every glance and flash of those dark eyes. 

“Bridgerton,” he drawls. “I suppose you’re proud of yourself. Was this your aim all along?” 

“You shall have to name the aim before I lay claim to it.” Anthony retorts, tossing the shirt onto the bed. His skin moves over his muscles easily, a smattering of dark hair across his chest. Simon puts his head on one side and looks at him more obviously, sees the moment those dark, dark eyes notice him looking. 

“When we talked of what it meant to have siblings or none. Clearly the most defining trait of family is that it leaves one unable to sleep alone – how you managed to give _me_ such a trait in just a few short weeks is to your credit I suppose – if that was your aim, that is?” 

Anthony looks just as he did the first time they met, his hair a tousled mess and his eyes taking up half his face. He licks at his lips unconsciously as he turns more fully to face him. 

“It was not my aim. It was…but…but I cannot say I am displeased with the outcome?” 

“Very well,” Simon says briskly, straightening up. “You shall have to take responsibility of course. Come along if you choose.” 

He strides out before his courage can fail him, walking straight back to his room without glancing back. He is no wife of Lot, or impatient Orpheus, to risk his love and his future on a look. When he reaches his room he sets about as he usually would, determined not to let it show even for a moment, if the risk does not pay off, if there is no knock on his door – 

The knock comes. The rush of relief and happiness sweeps through him, leaves his blood singing. But perhaps he gets ahead of himself, perhaps – 

“Enter.” 

Anthony closes the door behind him and stands there, bare-chested but with one hand still on the doorknob. Simon is so acutely aware of both symbols at once that he can scarcely breathe with the emotion warring inside him. Then his mind clears enough to notice Anthony looking him up and down with a decided expression, and realises he pursued his normal routine so adamantly that he is now shirtless himself, and what’s more with his breeches loose and barely clinging to his hips. 

“I am here to take responsibility,” Anthony murmurs. He is looking, very deliberately, so that Simon can see him looking, his gaze like a brand as it trails down his abdomen. 

“What are you t-taking res-s-pon-ponsibility for?” Simon stutters out, and clamps his lips shut to try and chase the words back down. But just as quickly the intention to speak further rises within his chest. It is not fair of him otherwise, to place all the burden of declaration upon Anthony. He is crossing the room before he has even thought of it, and now they are close, so close together, Anthony’s bare chest only inches away from his own, and Simon watches those dark eyes flash and feels his worries melt away. 

“I will tell you, if you do not know,” he murmurs, the words coming so easily now. “You should take responsibility for making it so that I cannot sleep at night without you, when I have never once noticed another’s absence before. You should take responsibility for weaving yourself so entirely into my life that to try and tear you out would leave me in tatters and ruin. You should take responsibility for teaching me the meaning of family, so that for the first time in my life I wish for one of my own –” 

Anthony is swaying on his feet, one hand half out-stretched towards Simon’s chest, but at those words his fingers curl back on themselves. 

“Family? You – you should wish to wed, and have a child –?” 

“That is not family.” Simon gasps out. “Family is – _inclusion_ , and pooled happiness, and knowing yourself loved, always. And duty and burdens. But duty tempered by joy, and burdens lifted by sharing them.” 

Anthony gives a little shiver all over and Simon cannot breathe with _want_ , cannot wait a single moment longer – they are not wed, he has not been in society so long he does not even know how improper his actions might be, but he cannot, he cannot – 

Anthony grabs his hips and jerks him forward, tipping his head back and groaning as their bodies press together, and the entire _ton_ could go hang itself before Simon let a single thought of them distract him from this moment. 

His hands come up to cup Anthony’s face and they are kissing, deeply and desperately, kisses that shake him to his very core. He could do this for hours, seated on the terrace in the sunlight with Anthony pulled into his lap and be the most content man on earth. But then Anthony tilts his hips and presses their lengths together through their breeches, and contentment shatters in the face of pure _need_. 

“Anthony, I would know what experience you have in this matter,” he gasps out, pressing kisses down Anthony’s jawline and onto his neck. Anthony seems to care nothing for words, just pulling his hips closer and grinding them sweetly together and it is so good Simon almost wants to forget his queries entirely, except if he does then he will end up taking Anthony on the floor. 

He grabs both the other man’s hands and holds them above his head, more to stop him being a distraction than with any other intent in mind. But Anthony _moans_ , his whole form going soft and pliant for Simon to rock against, looking up at him with eyes that are liquid-dark and dazed and Simon feels his length harden almost unbearably in his breeches. 

“Anthony, you will answer my questions or I will take you against this door,” he threatens, shoving forward with his hips hard. Anthony tips his head for a kiss and then promptly bites at his lip. 

“What – what form of a deterrent do you take that to be?” Anthony gasps. Already his mouth looks pinked and kiss-swollen. Simon would give half his estates to watch his cock sink inside it. 

“Only in comparison to taking you to _bed_ ,” Simon says, tightening his grip on Anthony’s wrists and watching his breath catch. “And taking my time with you.” 

“Devil take you Hastings.” Antony mutters, tossing his head. “Ask then.” 

“Have you lain with a man before?” 

Anthony’s cheeks flush to match his mouth. It is a deeply appealing sight. 

“No.” 

That is – Simon forces the lust thundering in his veins to subside. It is not the same as though he were lying with a virgin woman for the first time, but it still necessitates a certain level of care. Care he will ensure he takes so that he can watch Anthony fall to pieces in pleasure. Mostly though, he simply cannot fathom – 

“Why – what has brought about this interest in my bed then?” 

“Good God Hastings, are you going to fuck me or not?” Anthony demands, squirming against the hold Simon has on him. “None of the stories you ever told me of your conquests ever involved this much dallying –” he scarcely gets the word out before Simon has tossed him on the bed, and stripped them both of their breeches a moment later. 

“Ah, I see I have my own consequences to take responsibility for,” Simon says, eyeing the way Anthony’s length is already lying flushed and hard against his belly. Right now he cares less about Anthony’s motivations and more about making him writhe. “Move forward – there. Spread your legs for me.” 

“You are undertaking this all very clinically.” Anthony pants out. Simon puts his head on one side and considers him as he pulls a jar of slick from a drawer – he prefers to use it on himself when alone – and dips his fingers inside. Anthony does not sound entirely complaining. His gaze cannot stop running over Simon’s shoulders and chest and lower, and then his hands start to follow the same course and Simon has to take himself in hand, squeeze hard to try and regain his control. 

“It is a necessity to ensure I prepare you sufficiently,” he says, ducking his head low for more kisses. Anthony opens for each one sweetly, willingly, and his legs part just as easily. Simon presses his fingers lower and begins the torturous process of opening him up, feeling the slide of that tight, hot heat around his fingers instead of his cock. He drops his head down to Anthony’s shoulder and pants shallowly. “Do not test my control right now Bridgerton; it is hanging by a thread.” 

“Are you that desperate to have me –” 

“ _Yes_.” 

“Oh, damnation,” Anthony breathes out, back arching as his whole body squirms around Simon’s fingers. “Surely you are done, please, fuck, Simon, surely we can proceed now?” 

“Simon.” Simon pulls away suddenly to blink at him. “That is the first time you have called me Simon.” 

“You are about to fuck me,” Anthony grits out, but his cheeks have flushed pink again. “And you have called me Anthony for weeks now. Unless you prefer for me to refer to you by your ancestral – _ah!_ ” He moans as Simon slides his fingers deeper, pressing hard for that spot that makes men shudder in his hands. 

“I have been calling you Anthony?” Simon asks as he slicks himself, the words almost nonsensical as he tries to distract himself. Anthony’s hair lies damp on his forehead from sweat as he grabs for Simon’s shoulders to hold him close. He nods rapidly. 

“Since – ah, fuck – since we were at Aubrey Hall. You did not realise?” 

“My mouth moved faster than my head.” Simon laughs to himself, lowering down so they are pressed chest to chest. He is determined to have Anthony like this, spread out before him, even if the man tightens his fingers on Simon’s back when he pushes his legs wide. Anthony has ridden his entire life, he can take the stretch. Simon feels his length press up behind his balls, between his legs, press up against the slicked, stretched hole waiting for him. 

“And where is your heart in this race?” Anthony suddenly demands, just as Simon begins to breach him, pressing inside that aching wet heat. He is flushed pink up his entire chest but his eyes are just as dark and determined as ever. Simon leans down until their foreheads touch, presses another inch inside just to hear his breath hitch and feel him squirm around the head of his cock. 

“My heart? That ran before them both. You have had that in your possession some time now I believe.” 

“Not…ah…not as long as you have had mine. I have been waiting for you to catch up.” Anthony gasps, pushing back, already greedy for more. But Simon has not known him better than any other soul on earth for nothing – he hears the hitch in his voice and knows that Anthony had no expectations of Simon ever joining this race. 

Such thoughts fly out of his head as Anthony wriggles back and takes another inch, gasping desperately as he does so. Simon wraps an arm round his waist and presses the rest in slowly, ceaselessly, forcing Anthony’s body to open up and take him. He does not stop until every inch of him is shoved deep, wrapped in unimaginable tightness, and then he cannot bear to stay still. The slide back is almost as agonising, until he reaches the tip and gets to slam home again. 

“ _Fuck!”_ Anthony groans aloud, his whole body tensing, and Simon can only grab hold and pump his hips, bringing them both more of that aching ceaseless pleasure. Anthony is sweet and pliant and begging for it beneath him and Simon never wants to move from this moment again. 

“Simon – can you –” 

“What do you want?” Simon groans, still thrusting deep. He can feel his balls tightening, the peak of his release rearing over him. God have mercy – he is going to finish inside him, leave his spend slicked to mark where he has been. But first he needs Anthony to fall to pieces in his arms. 

“Fuck – I do not know! Can you – harder – more –” 

Simon curses and pulls out, though it breaks his heart to hear Anthony’s gasp of loss. He kisses him furiously, already shoving at his hips. 

“Turn over. Onto your knees – there.” 

The sight nearly unmans him, the long curve of Anthony’s spine and the slender span of his waist. It is the work of a moment to press close against his back and drop a kiss against his neck, and then to sink back inside and make them both groan. Anthony’s hands fist desperately in the covers as he begs. 

“Simon, more, damn you, harder.” 

“You overwhelm me.” Simon gasps against his curls. “You overwhelm me completely, I am moments from spending inside you –” he shudders when Anthony just makes a whining noise, pressing his face into the covers, and the lust that overtakes him is unstoppable, making him bite down hard on his shoulder. “And as soon as I have spent I will want you again and I will _have you_ , I will take you again and again until you are sore from me and then I will let you rest and then I will take you again _tomorrow –_ ” 

Anthony shifts beneath him and Simon can feel the frantic movement of his arm, the way his breath catches high and fast in his chest. He is so close himself, all conscious thought leaves him and he is nothing but pure want and desperation, grabbing hold of Anthony’s hips and pounding as deep as he can into that slender, most beloved body. He feels it when Anthony reaches his climax, his body stiffening as he sobs for breath, and follows him down as he collapses to the bed. His own finish is blinding in its intensity some moments later, still thrusting lazily into that spent and tired form, until he fills it up just as he’d pledged to. 

Anthony makes a noise when he separates them and Simon returns as quickly as he can, cleaning them quickly with a wetted cloth and then sliding an arm around the other man’s waist to draw him close. Anthony – utterly unsurprisingly – immediately draws closer still, till half his weight is draped across Simon’s chest and he can press his face into his neck. Simon lets them both regain their breathing before he breaks the silence. 

“After that I doubt even a boulder beneath the bed would disturb our rest.” 

There is a tired snort against his shoulder. 

“I would not wish it disturbed – you will need to regain your strength to do that to me again tomorrow morning.” 

Simon’s cock stirs against his thigh, strongly enough for Anthony to feel it. He lifts his head and smirks with all the mischief his soul possesses. 

“Ah, clearly some part of you agrees with the proposal – not your head or your mouth or your heart, but an important part nonetheless.” 

“Silence you wretch.” Simon mutters, kissing him fiercely. Anthony pulls away again just to narrow his eyes at him. 

“And then tomorrow night we should swap roles instead, and I can make you fall apart in such a manner.” 

“I would like nothing more.” Simon murmurs, kissing him more gently this time. In truth his head feels so dazed there is nothing he would agree to, no bargain he would not shake on, to keep Anthony in his bed and in his arms in such a way. The other man huffs out a breath against his chest and settles down firmly, so Simon may keep him tonight at least it seems. 

He shall make plans for the day after when he awakes. 

~ 

_Six months later_

Amongst the London _ton_ , Simon Basset, Duke of Hastings, is widely considered the best individual for engaging with the Bridgerton siblings. He knows this, because Lady Whistledown lovingly extolled upon his “Bridgerton wrangling” abilities, as she called it, in her very first newsletter of the season last week, and because the Queen called him for a private audience the day before yesterday, to stress how _fond_ she was of the Bridgertons and how keen she was that they should all make loving, _sensible_ matches – ones that maximised drama and entertainment for Her Majesty’s pleasure, and also strengthened her rule and authority across the nation. 

The hint was quite clear. 

The opinions of anyone outside this drawing room however, are currently immaterial, as Simon sits facing the determined gazes of fully half of the Bridgerton brood. In alphabetical order: 

Benedict, Daphne, Eloise, Francesca. 

He gives thanks for small mercies that they left off the youngest two. 

“Your Grace, you know how fond we are of you.” Daphne begins. She is the very picture of health despite the advanced stage of her pregnancy, with a rosy glow all about her. The Prince has been banished to be a hobbyhorse for Hyacinth and Gregory – he spared Simon a single pitying look before he closed the door behind him. 

“But Cliveden is so very far away,” adds Francesca. 

“It was lovely seeing you at Christmas.” Eloise says. “And last summer of course. But it’s been nearly three months since then.” 

“We would absolutely never suggest that a Hastings formally resides anywhere other than Cliveden.” Benedict quickly adds. He widens his eyes meaningfully when his sisters glare at him. It is quite clear where power lies in this family; Daphne has grown into her influence beautifully. 

“But we feel we must _insist_ upon more frequent visits.” Daphne says firmly, resting both hands on her belly. 

_Extended_ visits." Francesca adds. 

“I must confess,” Simon says slowly, tapping his ankle where it is crossed over his knee. The Bridgerton siblings wait politely for the rest of his words. 

It is good they left off the younger two. Only four Bridgertons? He can handle that. 

“I must confess, I thought there would be other objections,” he offers, and lets them consider that for a moment before holding up several fingers. 

“His duties as Viscount?” 

“Benedict and Eloise can handle those.” Daphne says sweetly. Benedict sighs and Eloise beams. 

“His requirements to provide an heir?” 

“We are thinking on that. Katharine Sheffield and Lady Hamilton have recently announced their engagement – perhaps you might consider approaching them to see if a mutually beneficial partnership could be agreed upon? All quite legal if the Queen approves.” Francesca says. Simon eyes her. She has hidden depths, this one. He lifts a third finger. 

“The opinions of the _ton?_ ” 

Four identical snorts greet him. Understandable. 

He looks at the rest of his fingers thoughtfully and then puts his hand back down. Daphne raises one of her lovely eyebrows. 

“Nothing further to add, Your Grace?” 

“No.” Simon considers them all, with their flashing eyes. “Just more frequent visits?” 

“Yes,” say four voices. "From you _both_ ," Daphne adds, her smile luminescent, and he nods. 

“I...I would be _delighted_ to accept.” 

There is the sound of voices approaching; familiar, much loved voices. He rises along with Benedict as the Lady Bridgerton enters the room, Anthony by her side. His love is tall and pink-cheeked, shining with life and happiness. Simon clenches his hands behind his back and swallows hard. He does not fear the words will stick in his throat and stumble over themselves in the speaking – there is nothing to fear here. 

He is surrounded by family. 

Anthony looks at him and smiles – and then his eyes widen till they take up half his face. 

“Lady Bridgerton,” Simon says formally, watching Eloise and Francesca clap their hands, Benedict grasp his brother by the shoulder, Daphne smile her beautiful smile. “If I might request a private audience with your son…?” 

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [iffervescent](https://iffervescent.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, come say hi


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